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Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Someone asked me the other day what's going on with me and my book. Well, let me tell you.

I'm waiting for copyedits, but basically book 1 is done. (And I'll share a secret: I've seen a rough draft of the cover. It. Is. Awesome.)

What I should be doing is writing book 2. Instead, I'm dilly-dallying. (As a side note, if your name is Michael, you can totally stop reading here. Nothing to see. Just know I'm working.)

What does dilly-dallying involve, you ask?

Let me tell you.

I've been remodeling my study:

Oh, the shiny pretty.

After I put it together yesterday, I sat there for two hours just staring. And staring. Don't worry. No actual writing got accomplished.

Also, I've been dealing with Kid B's obsession with Yoshi. Are you familiar with Yoshi? Here's a little introduction: He's the green little dinosaur in the Mario World.

Hi Kid B! Will you be my best friend?

He also comes in yellow, Kid B's favorite color. Yellow Yoshi made the trip to Disneyland.

His obsession spills over into every aspect of my own life, particularly when it comes to my iPhone. If I leave it unattended for even a few seconds, I will return to find every app has been erased, and the ones that haven't are in a new file:

Check out the upper right corner. Yep, it's a Yoshi folder.

Can I tell you how frustrating it is to have my Angry Birds app wiped clean about once every other day? And to have to start all over with those stupid red birds? What am I, an amateur? I'm so much better than those red birds!

It takes a lot of time. Thankfully I have a nice quiet study in which to work. On my Angry Birds.

Kid C is sort of obsessed with Kahn Academy. It's an awesome website where this guy put together a bunch of videos to help his niece with math. He now provides the videos for free, with funding from Bill Gates.

Kid C decided he wanted in on that action. He's made his own series of educational videos, starting with this one- Kid C teaches Addition. I especially love his reasoning for why 4+7=11 at around minute 1.

Not to be outdone by his big brother, Kid B decided he had a few things to teach as well. And guess what he decided to teach?

So, yeah, I've been busy. But I hope you've learned something by watching these educational videos. Do you know how much time it takes to dilly-dally? Especially when it's a full time job?

What do y'all do to dilly-dally?

p.s. I'm going to see Carrie Ryan (author of The Forest of Hands and Teeth series) at the Jordan Landing Barnes & Noble tonight. If you're going too, be sure to track me down and say hi!

Every time we take my dad to visit a new doctor, we listen patiently to the spiel. We are quiet as he or she reiterates what a formidable foe cancer is. And then my mom opens her mouth, and I think to myself, I hope this doctor knows what he's in for. He's about to be whacked up the side of the head with a buttload of optimism.

She will take whatever abysmal numbers they throw at her, and twist them around to suit her outlook.

Odds are 100:1 against us? "Fabulous," she says. "That means one person, somewhere out there, is beating the odds. Why not Dad?"

This attitude infiltrates every aspect of his treatment.

Yes, the chemotherapy causes my dad's hands and feet to swell and blister. Some serious ouch.

His hands, twice their usual size

But how my mom sees it is, "If it's doing that to your hands, imagine what it's doing to the tumors! This is so good."

She says this as she tirelessly and delicately massages his hands and feet. She knows how much it hurts.

As for the fact that he could only survive Disneyland in a wheelchair?

Mom: "It's only temporary, and can you believe we get to use the wheelchair line? This is so good!"

Sometimes I get the sense that her optimism scares people. We hear whispers of "Doesn't she get what's going on? Is she unclear of the concept of Pancreatic Cancer?"

I can tell you, without a doubt, she's totally clear on the concept. She just expects the best, and plans accordingly. And I've seen her expectations defy science, and fly in the face of those pesky numbers known as "The Odds".

For instance, my dad's chemo regimen knocks out his white blood cells, the things that fight infection. If his white count is below 1.5 he can't get a full dose. At 1, he might not even get any, because the danger of infection is too great.

After my dad's break from his first round of chemo, he knew he was still weak, and he was sure his numbers hadn't recovered enough. On the drive to the hospital, my mom repeated, "You're getting infused today. Get ready."

They tested his blood, and it was at 1.0. Borderline. They agreed to give him 80% infusion. Because this was only the beginning of his second round, the doctors thought there was no way his counts would recover for his next treatment, as he would have no break.

The next week, they made the drive to the hospital, and my dad was sure he wouldn't get the infusion. My mom said, "Get ready. You're getting infused."

My mom called me for support, and I was all, "Oh yeah, I'm with you. He's totally getting infused." But inside I was thinking, "There's no way he's getting infused."

They get to the hospital, draw his blood, and wait. The numbers come back. 1.9.

There's no explanation. Those numbers didn't make sense. He got the full infusion.

And after Disneyland and Palm Springs, the sheer energy of the trip - and the fact that each infusion should have an exponentially detrimental effect on his white count - should've led to even worse numbers. Plus, he was pretty sure he had a low-grade fever that morning.

How does this relate to publishing? You can probably guess, but I'm going to explain it anyway.

Every person who's been published defied the odds. Every. Single. One.

And along the way, I bet every single author knew someone out there was saying, "Are you crazy? Don't you understand the odds?"

I'm sure most of you have heard me say this, but I found my first agent after a contest with my sister-in-law, titled "Who can get to 100 agent rejections first?"

Let me tell you, I hit 100 rejections first. In your face! Boo-yah!

And with every rejection, my mom and I would get together and say, "That's one rejection closer to success!"

When my first book didn't sell, and I had to part ways with my first agent, my mom was all, "Glad we got that one out of the way. Now off to find a better fit!"

Even though I sometimes forget it, my mom reminds me there is a power to positive thinking. Believing something will happen in the face of incredible odds.

I don't know the science behind that power. I don't have any proof. Would my dad's counts have the same acrobatic skills if my mom did not literally bleed sunshine and rainbows? Maybe.

Or maybe I'd be writing a different blog post. I don't know. I never finished The Secret.

But I can tell you, my approach during the whole query/rejection stage helped me survive the long and arduous journey. Survival turned out to be key. I could've easily given up after rejection number 99.

And my dad was supposed to be dead two years ago.

Here's to expecting miracles, when reason tells you not to.

Yesterday, I went over to my parents' house for our weekly Sunday lunch. I checked out my dad's hands, as I always do.

I turned them over in my own hands, ran my fingers gently over the blisters and said, "If the chemo is doing this to your hands, think about what it's doing to the tumors!"

Are you in the middle of querying? Or any other struggle? Feel free to siphon off some of my mom's unwavering, unreasonable, emphatic optimism. She can enthusiasm your butt off. Only she'll do it more eloquently.

My dad in the chair, Kid B in his lap, my mom on the right. Me pushing.

My dad's chemotherapy regimen makes his feet swell and blister, so he was our designated driver, which kid B found perfectly convenient. Neither of their feet ever touched terra firma.

We shot defenseless aliens:

Sam trash-talked Kid B the entire ride, after which he slam-dunked his laser gun and chanted "loooo-serrrrr!"

We drove lots of cars

The first time Kid C rode on Indiana Jones, he was in the driver's seat. He was very nervous about the responsibility of driving the jeep:

He wanted to switch seats with me, but the people in the rows behind him encouraged him to drive the car. He did fine. Enough that he was allowed on the ride again.

Kid C, trying to smile

Next up was Autopia, where Kid C literally tried his hardest to jump the tracks. My poor dad.

My dad hanging on for dear life, with Kid C at the wheel. Don't try this at home. It is not good for the chemo stomach.

Kid B. Driving a car is serious work.

And is there a scarier sight than these two headed your way, armed and dangerous?

Two cool cats, ready for their mission.

My dad says he slept for two days straight when he got home.

We saw Soleil Moon Frye aka Punky Brewster:

We didn't take that picture. Sam was way too nervous to ask to get a picture. I've never seen him blush so much, but blush he did. He sort of had a crush on Punky Brewster. We teased him the rest of the trip.

By far, Kid C was most nervous to go on Space Mountain.

Here's us before the ride:

I don't know why he was nervous. I was completely calm during the entire experience, as evidenced in this in-ride picture:

Would it make it better if I told you my feet were being amputated at the time?

Seriously, worst picture ever. I can't even believe I'm sharing it with y'all. Don't show anyone. This is especially for those of you who believe I look the same in every picture I take.

Kid B demonstrates the proper way to wear shades.

We were exemplary hotel guests:

We don't really need much when it comes to hotel rooms, except the basic necessities: COLD DIET COKE.

When we checked in to our hotel, we found that the mini-fridge wasn't working. We called the front desk and immediately demanded a new one, which we promptly did this to:

Not only that, the original fridge wasn't even broken. We just hadn't turned it on. I think we made their "Permanent No-Vacancy" list for future trips.

Kid C learned several life lessons:

1. How to eat pizza like a burrito

2. How the United States decided to participate in ousting a crazy Libyan leader:

I was trying to explain to Kid C how evil Gaddafi was, without going into too much detail.

Kid C thought very hard about the most evil thing he could imagine someone doing. He then looked at me and said, "Does he fart on his wife?"

Oh for the days when passing gas on your wife is the most evil thing you can imagine someone doing.

Monday, March 21, 2011

I'm back. I'm sunburned. And I saw Rafa perform his most famous move ever...

Yes, that is firsthand video of Rafa picking his wedgie, a feat he tackles before every single point.

I also saw him do some of this:

His unreturnable serve- A feat almost as difficult and intricate as the wedgie-pick.

Yep. I was in tennis heaven. At one point Rafa and his teammate looked like they were in trouble, and so I pulled a move from one of my favorite movies The Natural, where the mysterious woman in white stands in the crowd and inspires Robert Redford out of his slump.

Then they live happily ever after.

Glenn Close, willing her lover to do better.

The only problem was, I left my white hat in the car (true story) and my spare hat was camouflage. So I stood up and immediately blended in with my surroundings.

The mysterious woman in beige. Not the same effect.

It was okay. Rafa and the other guy eeked out the win. In an interview afterward, Rafa said he felt something magical from the crowd, but when he turned to look, he didn't see anyone. Stupid camouflage hat.

I also surprised my parents with second-row tickets for their anniversary to see Roger Federer.

Federer, up close and hot. Also, hawt.

Federer totally dominated his opponent. He took the first set 6-0, and was up 2-0 in the second set when the other guy (Chela) finally won a game.

The crowd went nuts, trying to support the wounded underdog. Chela smiled and waved, and when the noise died down, he said loudly, "It's okay, Fed. Shake it off. You've got this." So funny.

Palm Springs by the Numbers:

Number on the thermometer: 90

Number of rows separating me from Federer: 2

Number on the sunscreen bottle: 70

Number of icy lemonades ingested: 42

Number of wedgie picks: 864 (862 from Rafa, 2 from me)

Number of times my mom told the people around us that they were sitting next to a soon-to-be-famous author: 1,748.

Thanks, mom.

I'll have more about the second half of our trip (Disneyland) on Wednesday, featuring standing in line behind Punky Brewster. For reals. No lie.

So, how was all y'all's week? Sorry I couldn't blog. There are only two kinds of hotels that don't offer wi-fi: the really really expensive ones, and the really really cheap ones. Guess which one we were in?

Monday, March 14, 2011

I'm not sure why someone wouldn't believe me, but I felt the picture was necessary.

Here are some headlines I anticipate for this trip:

1. Brodi Spends half of Advance for front row seats to see Rafa do this:

2. Brodi and Rafa will become best friends, just like she always dreamed. (Seriously, she has this dream several nights a week. Nothing naughty, they're strictly platonic. They just have so much in common. She also likes to pick her wedgies.

3. Kid C picks a fight with all the Pirates of the Caribbean.

4. Kid B pukes on the plane. It's okay, Sam's flying with the kids separately. I'll be safely out of the splash zone.

5. Disney will overcharge us for the privilege of existing in the happiest place on earth.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

EVERNEATH was not my first attempt at a book. It wasn't even my first finished book.

I completed EVERNEATH about 7 years after my first attempt, which was a really stupid chick-lit novel, about a woman who has a baby and thinks her life is over. (Kid C had just been born, but that totally didn't have anything to do with it.) The main character sat in a corner and cried a lot, occasionally sneaking sideways glances at the nuclear device across the room, otherwise known as a baby.

Me, wondering about a return policy.

I never finished the book, because in my mind, there was only one logical conclusion: The device goes off, everyone dies. And who says chick-lit has run its course?

I was writing what I knew, and what I knew was Post partum depression. Of course, at the time, I didn't know it was "post partum depression". I thought it was "Why didn't everyone tell me my life would suck after children? Is this like the best kept secret, because misery loves company?"

I got help.

Three years later, I had two children, and I thought for sure any attempt to write would be lost among diapers and baby bottles.

If we'd had a third, I totally could've fit all three in here.

But then, like most people, I adapted. I found minutes here and there, stuck between the couch cushions, behind the toaster, hidden in my husband's sock drawer. The more minutes I found, the more I strung them together until I had a routine. (Also, I stopped cooking. Never looked back).

And out of that routine, I wrote my very first book. And completed it! I loved my little book, and I knew my little book and I were going to go far.

No, it wasn't EVERNEATH.

Again, I wrote about what I knew. My first book was about a snarky, blond-haired, teenage school reporter, who also happened to moonlight as an alien-hunter. Besides the teenage part and the alien-hunter part, the character was me. Or at least, my voice. So easy to write. Just like writing this blog.

I revised and revised and soon I found an agent. Then we revised and revised, and submitted my book.

And here's where everything stalled. Kiersten White had a great post on this the other day, where she likened the process to two diverging lines at Disneyland. You never know how fast... or how slow... your line is going to go.

Everyone wants the same thing: to get on the boat! And get published.

I watched as some of my friends, who were at about the same point in their careers as me, shot to the front, hopped on the ride, and proceeded directly to the moon, where they lassoed the stars and brought them from the heavens to replace their porch lights.

While my book floundered.

I met Richard Peck at the SCBWI L.A. conference almost two years ago, and he asked me what I was doing while I was waiting to hear back from editors.

I answered enthusiastically, lying out of my arse. "I'm writing the next book, of course!"

The problem was, every book I wrote sounded exactly like my first book: same plucky teenage heroine, who kicks-a while simultaneously making witty comments.

Sam said to me one day, after reading some of my work, "You're never going to be able to write a different character."

And I was all, "But I want to write about a strong female!"

Sam: "Are snark and pluck the only things that make a female strong?"

To me, them there were fightin' words. Partially because I like to fight, but partially because he was right.

I thought of the opposite of that first character. Maybe a dark-haired, broken girl, who sometimes doesn't have the right things to say. Maybe her strength isn't as easy to pinpoint at first. Maybe it comes from somewhere besides the funny bone. Maybe it comes from a dark place.

Maybe she wasn't always like this, but she'd been through something unspeakable.

The question was: what had she been through?

And that's how EVERNEATH was started: as an exercise to prove my husband wrong (which is reward enough in itself), a challenge to test myself, a concerted effort to WRITE WHAT I DON'T KNOW.

The more I pushed against my own boundaries as a writer, the more I realized that maybe this wasn't just an exercise. I fell in love with the book, and after my first book crashed and burned in submission hell, I couldn't wait to go through it all again with EVERNEATH.

And that love would be tested. Without going into too much detail, at one point I had to choose between my faith in EVERNEATH, and my first agent. Never underestimate the importance of finding an agent who is passionate, PASSIONATE, about your book.

Maybe there's no better test for your bond to a book. I parted ways with my original agent (yes, I died a little) and found my better half Michael Bourret, who saw the same quiet strength in Nikki that I saw. And he just might be a brother from another mother.

Michael Bourret. He likes me and my book, just the way we are.

So, yeah, my particular Disneyland line hit a few twists and turns, and the occasional land mine, but in the end, it was MY line. I own it.

Those of you who are in line (and aren't we all?) own your line. OWN YOUR LINE. Write what you know. And sometimes, write what you don't know. See where it takes you. Try not to pay attention to other lines.

You'll never shed your skin if you don't stretch it.

So, what are your lines like? Any twists and turns you'd like to share?

This picture popped up on the internet after the party. I love it. Bree and I look thoroughly unimpressed, and Matt looks a little disgusted.

I'm here to tell you, that was not representative of the evening! Heather has promised to give us a little more notice before she snaps a candid picture next time.

Overheard at the party:

-Emily Wing Smith and I, taking turns to see who could cough up a lung first. (I won)

-Bree and Emily, having a discussion that involved the phrases, "Who did you fork that one time?"It's not like it sounds. They have both had accidents where they nearly impaled a bystander with a fork.

-Matt Kirby said afterward that the "Who did you fork" conversation would make my blog. He claims his blog-worthy-statements-detection-skills are running at about 98%.

-During the book swap, Chersti Nieveen trampled a small child to get her hands on Emily Wing Smith's ARC of BACK WHEN YOU WERE EASIER TO LOVE.

-She later swore the child was really the devil's spawn, and deserved to be trampled. Here's a picture of the unfortunate demon child:

Friday, March 4, 2011

*Don't forget to sign up with Windy A if you want to be included on a list of local (to Utah) bloggers to pass around an ARC of my book EVERNEATH.

1. So, last night my critique group (the SIX, ranked in order of crazy on the sidebar) had... a critique group. That sounds oddly redundant, but adequately explanatory. Anywho, here's a list of what everyone is working on:

Emily Wing Smith: Her next book about a quirky girl, a camcorder, and a television show. (I don't know if I'm allowed to share more.)

Kimberly Reid is working on Haunted: an awesome story that will change the way you think about time and space forever.

Sara Bolton: Mostly she is working on feeding and changing her newborn, who has a tendency to puke on cue, especially when confronted with stupid questions.

Emmi Bolton, in a rare non-puking moment.

On the side, she is working on a Historical fantasy, about a girl who becomes a knight.

Valynne Nagamatsu: A collaborative book about a girl and a boy obsessed with making horror movies.

For aspiring writers, I can't stress enough the importance of finding a good critique group who understands you and your work. I can honestly say I wouldn't be published if it weren't for these writers.

So, last night, during the discussion, I went to pop a cough drop in my mouth. But I accidentally missed (Hey, aiming for your mouth is hard, especially without a mirror) and the cough drop went down my shirt to where it nestled comfortably in my cleavage.

I dug around to pull it out, and along with the cough drop I pulled out a piece of popcorn.

Well, where would you store yours?

My friends started cracking up. They asked me when I had last eaten popcorn. I told them I had it for breakfast (because it's smart to start the day with nutrition). So the popcorn had been stuck down my shirt for about 12 hours without me noticing.

I asked Sam what he thought this event said about me.

Sam: "I think it's a testament to the breadth of your cleavage."

Me: "Please, for the love of everything, don't ever say 'testament to the breadth of your cleavage' ever again. Never ever."

2. A couple of days ago, my dad and mom went down to Houston, TX, to MD Anderson Hospital. (Known for their awesome cancer-fighting ninja skills).

At first he couldn't get in, because MD Anderson is in high demand, and we weren't being successful in jumping through the right hoops. So we pulled every string we could think of, and called in every favor, which resulted in Phil Mickelson...

Yeah, this guy...

...calling his good friend, the head doctor at MD Anderson. An hour later, my dad's cell phone rang, and it was the head doctor. He arranged for my parents to get in with a pancreatic cancer specialist later that week.

The doctor was blunt, spirited, and quick to tell my dad his first mistake is thinking we don't have a fight. He then detailed a plan A,B,C,D, and E for extending my dad's life.

I love doctors like this, and I'm grateful for people like Phil Mickelson who would do my family a solid. *High-fives Phil* *Slices one wide right, just for him*

Okay. This post is way too long.

Anyone going to the Utah book blogger social tomorrow night? Anyone doing anything fun this weekend? Can you join me in thanking Phil? Anyone know how I can get ahold of Lance Armstrong's doctor? We might as well assemble the best team possible...